


The First Day

by MundaneExMiscellanea



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneExMiscellanea/pseuds/MundaneExMiscellanea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Inquisitor had never killed anyone before traveling to the Redcliffe Crossroads?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Day

While the others bedded down, Powell settled in to take first watch. He took off his helmet, dropping the ill-fitting thing to the ground while he shook his hair out. He'd need to cut it soon, he thought. Styling his hair just like the infamous rebel warden Anders had seemed funny when it was irritating his father and the prigs in the Templars. It seemed less amusing after shooting a rebel mage in the throat.

Fortunately, nobody had seen him vomit. He’d always been good at stepping quickly out of sight.

He looked up to see Varric approaching, and he composed his face into a crooked smile and smoothed his mustache. Varric offered him a canteen.

"That was a busy day," Varric said. "You doing all right?"

"Of course," Powell said. "Closed some rifts in the fabric of the world. Fought demons, Templars, mages, and mercenaries. Practically dull routine by this point."

"I think I got six demons, four mages, and three Templars," Varric said. "How about you?"

"I think," Powell said, "that I find scorekeeping in poor taste under these circumstances."

Varric nodded. "I thought you might."

"Then why ask?"

"Let me try a different question. How many people had you killed before today?"

Powell leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. It was almost a relief, really. He could stop wondering when someone would ask.

"None," he said.

"You made it all the way from Ostwick in the middle of a war without a fight?"

"More or less," Powell said. "I was travelling with a large Chantry cohort. The belligerents in this war seem to be looking for rather less of a challenge.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Is it about the scar?" Powell said, pointing to the long curving groove along his left cheek. Varric nodded. "When I was about fourteen, I thought I might like to be a duelist. Turns out sharp blades are quite dangerous."

"It does have a high turnover rate, as professions go."

"I decided I'd rather be clever than a killer," Powell said. "Why fight when you can hide, distract, disable? Lower risk of death for everyone."

“Couldn’t agree more, kid,” Varric said.

“Kid?” Powell laughed. “I hope that’s not going to be my permanent nickname. I’m not that young.”

“Well, I was going to call you ‘Shooter’, but it sounds like that might not sit well with you.”

Powell laughed again, then sighed. “I managed to go almost thirty years without killing anyone at all,” he said. “And then in the space of a day I kill more than I can count.”

“Two mages,” Varric said. “Three mercenaries. Five templars.”

Powell stared at him.

“I can give you the demons and wild animals too, if you want.”

“Somehow,” Powell said, “I don’t think that will make me feel better.”

“You’d be surprised,” Varric said, and Powell noticed for the first time just how tired Varric was. His eyes were sad and exhausted. “You know, before I met Hawke, I had killed a few people. Escorting caravans you run into bandits and the like. I never knew their names, obviously, but I remembered their faces. Seemed like the right thing to do.” He shrugged. “Then I started travelling with Hawke, and we couldn’t go a day without a lethal fight. Bandits, darkspawn, qunari, blood mages: we racked up quite the body count. So one day, as a joke, I started keeping track. ‘And another one for me! How many is that for you, Hawke?' Aveline didn't much appreciate the joke, but Hawke, well, Hawke never met an awful joke she didn’t like. Soon I was keeping track of everyone's scores. Not written down anywhere, just in my head."

"Seems pretty sick," Powell said.

"Oh sure," Varric said. "But it helps. I don't remember faces; I remember numbers. It's like a ledger. It keeps the balance." Varric sighed. "And it reminds me that one day I'll have to pay it all back."

"You expect to be judged by the Maker?"

"I just mean we all die, kid," Varric said. "Some of us sooner than others."

“And all of us sooner than we’d like,” Powell said.

They sat together in silence, in the deepening dark, listening to the crackling of the campfire. A wolf howled, but distantly. Whatever it hunted, it wasn't them.

"What about Charmer?" Powell said at last.

"Who's Charmer?" Varric asked.

"Me! For a nickname."

"You don't get to pick your own nickname. The nickname chooses you."

"I would also accept Handsome. Or Gorgeous."

"You're going to be Wiseass in a minute."

"Ooh, how about Cleverbreeches? The compromise candidate."

Varric laughed. "This is what I get for trying to be helpful," he said, turning to go back to the fire. 

"Varric," Powell said. Varric paused. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Varric said. And he trudged off to his bedroll.

Powell brushed the dirt from his helmet and set it back on his head. He took up his bow. He did not feel better. But he thought that maybe, in a few hours, he might be able to sleep. With luck, he would be too tired to dream.  


End file.
